


and tie a ribbon on those sheltering arms (in the springtime of the year)

by hellstrider



Series: Long & Lost [3]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bottom!Billy Hargrove, Devotion, Familiars, Feral Behavior, I GOT MY WITCH FINGERS ALL OVER THIS ONE, M/M, Magic, Possessive Behavior, Sex Magic, Something!Steve Harrington, Top!Steve Harrington, Witch AU, Witch!Billy Hargrove, Worship through sex, its so soft, witch shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: "i'll live and die burnin' just for you, steve harrington,"
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Billy Hargrove
Series: Long & Lost [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555963
Comments: 18
Kudos: 212





	and tie a ribbon on those sheltering arms (in the springtime of the year)

**Author's Note:**

> part 3 of the rewritten long & lost verse!
> 
> tumblr: billyhargrovens
> 
> title from the mummer's dance by loreena mckennitt

“What’s that?”

“Frankincense,”

“Like… _Frankenstein?”_

“No,”

“ _Oh,_ ” and it comes out soundin' a little _apologetic,_

And Billy sucks in a cheek, takes a _deep breath_ ;

“It’s a _resin_ , Bambi, real protective shit, _cleanses the_ \- the _energy_ , in a place,” he explains with as much patience as he can muster, and Steve’s watching from where he’s perched on the couch, chin resting on the back, as Billy cleanses the new apartment – the one bedroom, the one they’d found while lookin’ on a whim, the one that had a garage for the Camaro and energy so bright Billy’s still kinda waiting for the other shoe to drop, so he's cleansing the shit outta it anyway, about to get to work on a protection spell that'll make the walls sing and the floor hum, 'cause, by some kinda miracle, he _got Steve Harrington back_ and he's gonna _keep_ him as _safe_ and _well_ as he can,

And Billy _loves_ Steve, he _does_ , but Steve has asked “ _what’s that_ ” about _twenty thousand fucking times_ , now, and Billy’s _patience_ is wearing _thin_ , ‘cause _moving_ , just, _stresses him the fuck out,_ and Steve keeps askin’ _questions_ and Billy’s never been good at takin’ more than five in a row when he's focused on somethin' important,

But then Steve tilts his head, and his eyes do that _thing_ they do, where they go all _dewy,_ and he’s gazing at Billy, who’s shirtless in a pair of ratty old Hawkins High sweats, like he’s hung the _damn moon_ as he says,

“I can’t believe I _missed_ all of this. Missed you becoming - _magic_ ,” and,

Billy’s stupid heart goes sideways and he sets the bowl of frankincense aside as he lets out a soft, Upside-Down, “ _Stevie_ ,” and then Steve’s clambering over the back of the couch and crowding Billy up against the wall, right next to a window without lavender hung over it yet,

And Billy’s soul _surges_ forwards in a desperate attempt to reach Steve, makes his palms glow, a bit, and Steve smells like their sheets and Billy’s cologne, and he’s wearing Billy’s _clothes,_ right down to the _boxers_ he had to roll up three times at the hips ‘cause they were too big,

“I know you hate the – the _questions,”_ Steve’s saying, and Billy’s only half hearing him, ‘cause he’s _lost_ in those honey-gold eyes, _so_ fuckin’ gone, “but I _missed this,_ I missed – you becoming, _a,_ a goddamn _witch,_ and I _wanna_ – wanna _know_ what you’re _doin’_ , baby, wanna know about _this_ , about, about _you_ ,” and,

Billy’s all but a _puddle_ on the floor when the words finally catch up to his Steve-drunk brain, and then he’s swallowing hard and cupping Steve’s face between his ember-gold palms, and Steve _hums,_ hums and tips in to kiss the strangled, “Bambi,” offa Billy’s lips,

“Know me better than _I_ do,” Billy manages, and Steve’s pressing soft kisses to his mouth with his eyes open, eyes gone _dewy_ , and Billy’s chest _aches_ when Steve slides his arms around his neck and says, quietly, “always wanna keep _learning_ about you, though,” and,

" _Jesus_ , Bambi,” and it comes out on a choked little laugh, “never gonna get this place protected _right_ if you keep _sayin’ shit_ like that to me, lookin’ like this,”

And Steve _grins_ , dopey, loose, bites his bottom lip and trots on Billy’s feet, socks slipping over his skin, and Billy wraps an iron-strong arm around Steve’s waist, hauls him close, bears most of his weight with ease, and Steve is warm and solid, is _real,_ against Billy’s bare chest,

“Lookin’ like _what?”_ Steve asks impishly, arms tight around Billy’s shoulders, and his socked toes step over Billy’s feet, and Billy needs to get the silver pot on the stove goin’, needs to get lavender over the windows, but Steve’s lookin’ at him like he’s _hung the damn moon_ and become the sun, and Steve’s – _here,_ and _this is,_ this is _their_ apartment, and _both_ of their names are on the lease,

And Steve _came home,_

Came _right_ back to Billy’s arms,

Pushed his heart _right_ back into place,

And Steve’s been _clingy,_ so fuckin’ _clingy_ , since they fell right back together almost a month ago, now; he’s _always_ in Billy’s clothes, always in a shirt or hoodie of Billy’s, keeps stealin’ his _underwear_ , and he’s been _following Billy around like a puppy_ , and Billy’s _beyond_ obsessed with it,

Because it’s been _five years,_

And Billy’s finally come _alive_ again,

And Steve’s in a pair of Billy’s boxers, had to roll ‘em up three times at the hips, and he’s swimmin' in Billy’s old HOLLYWOOD sweatshirt, sleeves so long they’re fallin’ over his hands, and he’s lookin’ at Billy like he’s hung the fuckin’ _sky,_

“Mine,” Billy murmurs, “lookin’ like _mine_ ,” and,

“ ‘Cause I am, tiger,” Steve says, and it’s fuckin’ _unfair_ , so fuckin’ _unfair_ , and Billy can’t believe this isn’t some _curse-induced_ fever-dream, and Billy’s about to shove Steve towards the bedroom when there’s an impatient tapping at the window and Steve’s gaze snaps towards it, and then he’s grinning like a loon and untangling himself from Billy’s possessive, iron-clad arms,

“ _There_ you are,” Steve croons, shovin’ the window open, and in clatters Fawcett, and _she’s got_ – Jesus, she’s got a _goddamn mouse_ in her beak, one she drops _right_ at Steve’s feet, and Steve, who’s been utterly wound around her little talon from the _jump_ , coos and says, “ _good job_ , baby,” and,

“ _Please_ don’t encourage her to bring _dead fuckin’ animals_ into the house,” Billy says, but his heart’s going triple time as Steve strokes over Fawcett’s head, and the red-tailed hawk is practically purring as she butts up into his palm,

“It’s a _present,_ babe,” Steve says, and he’s been takin’ to all this shit like a duck to water, and Billy thinks his _stupid_ heart is gonna, just, _crawl_ outta his body and inch towards Steve when he scratches under Fawcett’s beak and says, all gooey, “she’ll eat it, it’s _fine_ , it’s just a mouse,”

Which,

_Just,_

“If she doesn’t, _you_ get to take care of it,” Billy warns, and Fawcett blinks at him with her _huge,_ honey-gold eyes as Steve looks towards him with _his_ huge, honey-gold eyes, and it’s, just, _so much_ , Jesus, this is _so much,_

“She _always_ does,” Steve says defensively, and Fawcett shuffles closer to him on the table, until she’s practically glued to Steve’s side, “she’s a good little Familiar, aren’t you, baby?”

And Billy’s chewing on his goddamn heart as he lights the coal under the frankincense with a small wave of his hand, as Steve’s eyes go, if possible, even _bigger_ , and Fawcett trills and flutters up to Steve’s shoulder when he shuffles closer to Billy, and this is, _just,_ how it’s gonna _go_ , he guesses, when Steve asks,

“Is there, _like_ , a _spell_ you think of before you, you _do that_ , or do you just,” and Steve flaps a hand and Fawcett’s on his – on his _shoulder_ , ‘cause she’d taken to Steve like he belonged to her, too, and Billy’s throat is _so fucking tight_ , and he tries to clear it of the lung that’s taken up residence in it to no avail,

And the sweet, musky scent of the frankincense starts to waft through the air as Billy puts the little bowl on the long kitchen counter, all black granite, and then he’s holding out his hands and when he says, “gimme your hand, sweetheart,” Steve does, immediately, without question, and,

“It’s all _intention_ ,” Billy says, and Steve’s fingers are a little chilly, so Billy lets his palms burn like embers, lets fire lick up between ‘em, and Steve inhales quick and quiet, but he _doesn’t pull back_ , doesn’t even fuckin’ _flinch_ , ‘cause he _knows_ , knows Billy would _never_ hurt him, and it makes Billy _a little_ – a little _hard_ , if he’s being honest, as his gentle fire curls around Steve’s hand, warming his skin down to the bone,

“ _Everything_ is intention, Bambi,” Billy murmurs, absolutely, horribly lost in the way the firelight turns Steve’s porcelain skin a soft, shimmering orange, makes those honey-gold eyes _gleam_ , “this shit could tear the _world_ open, if I wanted it to.”

“So it _could_ burn me, if _you_ wanted it to,” Steve says, sounding a little awestruck as he looks down at their hands, and Fawcett makes a sound like she’s laughing as Billy’s lips curve, as an impossible, _throttling_ love slides right up under his healin’ heart,

And he cups Steve’s jaw with a hand still on fire, smooths a thumb over his cheek, and Steve’s eyes flicker up to meet his, and it’s a goddamn _punch_ to the gut,

“Not ever,” the witch says quietly, “not you,”

And Steve's eyes are sunstruck when they flicker up to Billy's face, and he slides his hand over Billy's, tips his cheek into his palm, asks,

“Even when you hated me for leaving?”

And Fawcett spreads her wings, clicks in her chest, and the fire in Billy’s hands goes from orange to white to blue, goes _out_ altogether, and it’s gonna be one _Hell_ of a trial, gettin’ this place all spelled up, ‘cause all Billy _can do_ when Steve says, _even when you hated me for leaving_ is pull him _close_ , and Fawcett soars to the wooden perch Billy carved for her with careful hands,

And he slides one of those careful hands through Steve’s hair as Steve loops a finger through one of his errant curls, steps on Billy’s toes, goes all loose and _lax_ against his chest, and Billy had thought it would take _time_ , mendin’ the chasm between ‘em, the chasm Billy carved outta ice, but Steve’s been _so fuckin’ clingy_ , and when Billy had asked him, ‘ _where you stayin’, Bambi_ ,’

Steve had gone all _vulnerable_ , had slide tentative, hesitant hands up around Billy’s shoulders, and they’d been _all_ tangled up on the mattress on the floor in Billy’s old, tiny studio, hadn’t left the warmth of the bed, the heat of each other, for _shit_ other than food for _three days,_ and Steve had looked vulnerable, _raw_ , when he’d clung to Billy after _three days_ of soakin’ in his fire,

As he’d said,

“Don’t wanna be apart from you, tiger,” and,

Something inside’a Billy clicked into place and he’d pressed Steve back to the sheets, the sheets _soaked_ with ‘em, the sheets soaked with magic, with flames, and _that had been that,_

And they’d found this place after lookin’ for under an _hour_ , on a _whim_ , and it was _perfect,_ perfect for ‘em, with energy so clean it sorta made Billy tetchy, with a garage for the Camaro, with a kitchen big enough to craft in, and,

“I _never_ hated you,” Billy says, quiet, so quiet, and he starts to step back, walks back towards the kitchen with Steve in his arms, glued to him, “even when I wished I could, I never hated you, Bambi. And I’d _never_ hurt you, you _know_ that,”

“Yeah,” Steve says softly, gaze flickering to Billy’s lips, and the kiss is soft, _chaste,_ sticky, reminds Billy of the Salem sunset; “this is _incredible_ , tiger. You’re incredible,” and,

Steve plasters himself to Billy’s back as he fills the pot he’d gotten from Selene in the kitchen sink, the one with a protection seal carved into the bottom, the one with wooden handles, the one made outta holy-fire blessed silver, and Steve is quiet as Billy pulls out the sticks of cinnamon, the bulbs of clove, the pods of nutmeg, the stars of anise, and,

“What’s this for?” 

“Protection spell,”

“Can’t you just,” Steve waves a vague hand, “make it protected?”

“It’s an amplifier, sweetheart. My specialty is _fire_ , not warding, so I gotta have some help,”

“So witches have, _have_ –“

“Gifts,”

“Oh.”

“The woman who made this,” Billy says, and it’s easy, easy to talk about Selene; “she specializes in warding. Got this from her a year ago when we had some… _Issues_ with the fae,”

“Fae.”

“Faeries.”

“No _way_ ,” Steve huffs around an incredulous laugh as Billy waves a hand and lights the stove; “like, _pixies_ and shit?”

And Billy turns his head to nuzzle into Steve’s cheek, and _he’s startin’ to_ – startin’ to _relax,_ relax into the fact that _this is,_ is _real_ , that this is _his,_ that this _isn’t_ some curse-induced fever-dream, ‘cause he can _feel_ Steve’s heartbeat when he focuses, and Steve _smells_ like them, like Billy’s cologne and his magic, smells the way gold _looks_ , and,

“They’re not nearly as sweet as you’d think,” Billy says wryly, and he lifts an elbow, and under the gnarled roots of a tree tattooed on his bicep are a myriad of little, lacing scars that Steve traces with reverent fingertips, “they’ve got _knives_ for feet, move faster than you can even think’a a spell to get to ‘em. _Nasty_ little fuckers,”

“Pixies are _real.”_

“So are elves,”

“You’re _shitting me,”_

“I’m _not,_ Bambi, hand to the gods. They’re _real_ ugly, though, under the glamour, and they’ll eat your heart if you let ‘em see it,”

“ _Jesus,”_ a pause; “you’ve, _you’ve been_. In the Upside-Down,” and,

“Been in it,” Billy turns then, as the cinnamon and the clove and the nutmeg and the anise marries in the pot, and Steve’s watchin’ him close, _real_ close, “kept a bit of it,”

And he turns his right forearm over, where there’s a thatch of tangled, blackened veins, veins surrounded by a tattooed halo of soft yellow and peach, and Steve’s lips slowly part as he traces the veins, as he thumbs across the prayer hands right under ‘em, under the halo,

“What _is_ it?” Steve asks then, quiet, “the Upside-Down,” 

“A lost place,” Billy says faintly, “for lost things. It’s on the edge of the realm we call the Otherworld. Where all that impossible shit lives. Where _I_ lived, for a bit there, when I was a lost thing.”

And then Steve lifts Billy’s arm a bit, ducks his head to press a gentle kiss the blackened veins, and Billy’s nostrils flare with a burning, _aching_ kinda need, and he sinks a hand into Steve’s hair, crowds him back against the far counter, coaxes his mouth open with a gentle, probing tongue, and Steve’s arms shake, a little, as they snake around his neck, and Billy slides a tattooed hand under his sweatshirt, the _huge fucking sweatshirt_ , the one that falls over Steve’s fingertips, and,

“I _hate_ thinking about it,” Steve says, voice gone sideways, as he fiddles with Billy’s curls and Billy splays a hand over his ribs, lets his palm get warm; “I hate thinking about you – _being there_ , all ‘cause _I,_ I wasn’t _fucking brave enough_ to, to _tell you_ how I felt. All ‘cause I _left.”_

Which,

“I would’a fallen into this with or without you, Bambi,” Billy says, ‘cause it’s _true_ , ‘cause there’s _always_ been fire in his bones, and Steve Harrington is the one who woke it up, is the one who _always_ would’a woken it up, but Steve’s lookin’ _some kinda angsty_ as his brow furrows and he chews his bottom lip, and Billy thumbs over his chin, gentles it outta those teeth,

“You left,” Billy says, and Steve’s honey-gold eyes flicker with a flinch; “and I made sure you did, Bambi. I chased you _right_ outta this shitty little town. We were some kinda stupid, but,”

He grips Steve’s sides, shakes him a little, and Steve’s mouth softens, then curves, a bit, when Billy nuzzles at his cheek and purrs, “but you’re walkin’ around lookin’ like this, all wrapped up in _my_ clothes, and that bed is all _ours_ , and I’m _all_ yours, sweetheart,” and,

“You _came home_ , baby, came _right_ back to me,” and,

“It’s like you _never fuckin’ left,”_ and,

They’d had a fight, ‘cause Billy had demanded, ‘ _what took you so fuckin’ long, Harrington’_ , and Steve had grown spikes, shot back, ‘ _you never gave me anything to fucking hope for if I ever came back, Hargrove’_ , and it was true, ‘cause Steve had texted Billy a _thousand_ times over those five years, the five years that felt like a hundred, and Billy hadn’t texted back, not _once,_

So they’d had _such_ a goddamn fight, a fight that Billy had pinned Steve down for, a fight Steve had let Billy fuck him through, had _begged_ him to be inside'a him for, and Billy _had been,_ had bruised him up until fire licked up around them and Steve was _crying_ and Billy couldn’t say anything but _I love you,_ voice _aching_ , words hedging on a _prayer,_ on some kinda _plea_ , and,

_Here they are,_

In their _new apartment,_

And Billy doesn’t want any more _goddamn fights_ , thinks he mighta spent all the war in his ravaged soul carvin’ new paths through the Otherworld, and he’s met shit so old it would move anyone else to some kinda faith, but the only thing he’s ever been proper devoted to believin’ in is right, _right_ in his arms, came _right_ back to him,

And now Steve’s _here,_ and Steve’s _all_ wrapped up in Billy’s clothes, and he smells like Billy and ocean-spice, smells just like Billy remembers, and he thought it’d take them some time, but Steve’s been clinging to him like a damn _barnacle_ since they fell into Billy’s bed, the bed on the floor in his old studio,

And all he can do is start to believe in somethin’ _divine,_ some kinda _holy_ thing, ‘cause -

‘ _Who knows, Bills; a miracle might be just around the corner_ ,’ and,

 _He_ knows,

 _Knows_ that Steve is _,_ _is_ that miracle,

And the kitchen’s starting to smell like clove, like cinnamon, like nutmeg, anise; startin’ to smell like a proper home, and the runes on the bottom of the silver pot are slowly flooding with the intention Billy’s bleeding from his bones, the intention structured around keeping one Steve Harrington as safe as he could,

And _Billy’s_ – he’s _getting_ , getting _hard,_ as the magic unfurls from his core, as it starts to spread through the apartment, and Steve laughs a bit when Billy rolls his hips, and that laughter sends a spike of magic-soaked lust shooting _right_ to his gut, urges a soft moan to unfurl over Billy’s tongue like _wine_ , and,

Billy’s fire burns _all_ for one Steve Harrington,

And he can _feel_ the _burn_ of that devotion as the runes ignite, as the amplifier of the holy silver, the clove, the cinnamon, the nutmeg, the _anise,_ calls to the honey-gold magic _deep_ in his bones, the magic that surges to life _all_ to protect the one that’s moved him to faith, the divine thing in Billy’s arms, _and,_

“Bambi,” and Billy all but _moans_ it against Steve’s jaw, against his throat, voice gone dewy and drippin’, _and he’s_ , he’s getting so _soft_ even as he’s hard in his sweats, and Steve cups the nape of his neck, fingers weaving through his curls, and Billy’s _aching_ somethin’ _feral_ when Steve _hums,_ hums low and breathes, “wanna take _care_ of you, tiger,”

_And,_

Billy lets out a _proper_ moan now as the fire under the silver pot _flares,_ as his wildling soul ignites to mirror it; the runes on his knuckles _shimmer_ and the sheer _presence_ of Steve _starts to_ , just, _consume_ him, consumes him the way it _always_ has, the way it always _will_ , and _Billy kinda_ – kinda wants to _fall_ to his _goddamn knees,_

“Wanna _feel you_ , Cherry-bomb,” Billy says, voice halfway wrecked already, mouth watering at the mere _thought_ of it; “wanna feel you _deep_ ,” and,

Steve swears somethin’ _fierce_ , and Billy grips his hips, drags him away from the counter, and Steve’s greedy, possessive tongue curls into Billy’s mouth as Steve herds him back towards the bedroom, the bedroom that has a pair of shoes turned upside down set at the foot and a bundle of lavender hanging over the window,

The bedroom with a bed that has a new wooden frame, a frame carved with knots, knots woven by Billy’s hands, one that _sighs_ when they fall into it, Steve caging Billy down with arms meant to, and Billy tugs at Steve’s sweatshirt, his old HOLLYWOOD sweatshirt, the one with grease on it, the one with a cigarette burn on the sleeve, and Steve lets him yank it off,

And then Steve’s tracing the spiky _S_ on Billy’s chest, right over his heart, and then the words underneath, the words that –

“What does this mean?” Steve murmurs; “I’m not even gonna _try_ and pronounce that,” and,

Billy chuckles, catches Steve’s hand and brings it to his lips, then, against his palm, he says, “ _mo chroí_. Means ‘ _my heart’_ ,”

And Steve’s fingers _twitch_ a little, as Billy noses into his palm, and Billy gets a glimpse of dewy, honey-gold eyes before he grins, a little _wicked_ , and laves his tongue over Steve’s palm, all salt and sweetness, and Steve _groans_ out a “holy _fuck_ , tiger,” when Billy sucks down two of his fingers like it’s Steve’s –

“Wanna _feel_ you,” Billy purrs against Steve’s fingers, the fingers that’ve been holding his heart for so fuckin’ long, “wanna feel you in my _bones_ , my _blood,_ my _throat_ ,” and,

Steve lurches for the nightstand with a, “fuck, _fuck_ ,” and Billy lets out a cracking, _whooping_ laugh, smacks his hands down on Steve’s ass, squeezes it possessive and _tight_ , and they’re fuckin’ _surrounded_ by magic, surrounded by _fire,_ and Billy’s feelin’ that _little primal thing_ inside’a him start to _stir_ when Steve slides back between his thighs proper, when Steve bends to taste the smile curving his lips,

When clever, _strong_ hands tug Billy’s sweats down,

When _clever_ , calloused fingertips slide between his legs,

When Steve sinks one’a those clever, calloused fingers _into_ him,

And Billy _groans_ , a sound that rips right outta the pit of his fucking gut, and Steve hushes him, soft and sweet, right against his ear, and,

He can’t _not_ think about it - about the first time Steve gentled him open, the first time his body took _anyone_ , the _only one_ it _ever_ would, and fire licks up through Billy’s throat, curls up in his palms, flickers to life at his fingertips, and Steve kisses over Billy’s clenching stomach as he slides a second finger into him,

And he can’t _not_ think about it, about the first time Steve sank into him, the first time he felt Steve move in him, the first time he moved Billy’s spirit to feelin’ that kinda faith, the faith nothin’ but _one Steve Harrington_ has ever made him feel, and it had been a _brutal_ kinda night, and they’d been bruised, _bloodied_ , gore-spotted and _desperate_ , when Billy had pulled Steve between his legs in the back of the Camaro, _shakin_ ’ with need,

‘Cause they’d gone five rounds with the Otherworld in the Hawkins woods,

And Steve had a gash on his cheek,

And Billy had nearly gotten his throat ripped out by a demo-dog,

And Steve had sunk into him then with _diamonds_ in his eyes,

And Billy had felt somethin’ _holy_ move in him when Steve did,

And he feels it _now_ ,

As he pants, _ragged_ , hoarse, _deep;_ “that’s _enough_ , baby, _c’mon_ , wanna _feel you_ , need’ta, _need –“_

And,

“ _Shh_ , I got you, tiger, _I got you_ ,” Steve murmurs, and _this time_ , this time it’s _so_ gentle, so beautifully _soft_ , when Steve makes ‘em one body, when he _sinks_ into Billy and splays his hands over Billy’s heavin’ ribs to try and gentle his burnin' breaths in his soothing palms, and a ripple of _gold_ pulses through the veins in Billy’s forearms in cadence with his skippin’ heartbeat as Steve parts his lips over the front of Billy’s throat when his head falls _back,_

And he’s already _blissed the fuck out,_

‘Cause somethin’ like _divinity_ surges through him as their bodies become one, as their souls unfurl to reach out and get as close as they’re _ever_ gonna get, and Billy’s eyes _burn_ , ‘cause if he could wrap ‘em up together, make ‘em one soul _forever,_ he _would,_ but that’s the kinda magic that could destroy ‘em both, the kinda shit that only the old druids could _ever_ touch, so he’ll take _this_ , take –

 _Strong,_ soothing hands catching Billy’s full, aching breaths between ‘em, until they slide up, up over his arms, tattoos glimmering with the promise of magic,

 _Will take_ ,

Calloused, clever fingers tangling up _tight_ with his own, unafraid of the flames that twist and flicker in Billy’s palms,

_Will take,_

“You feel _so fucking good,_ baby,” breathed right, _right_ in Billy’s ear, and Billy wishes he could _live_ in the way Steve’s skin feels against his own, in the way Steve’s hips roll between his thighs, the way he fucks _so_ tender and _so_ reverent into him,

And he’ll _take,_

" _Fuck,_ Billy, _I feel_ – feel you _everywhere_ like this, always feel you _everywhere_ , never wanna feel _anything else,”_

_And,_

Billy’s forearms glimmer gold under the ink of his homage to the wildling inside’a him as fire snakes slow and soft around their twined hands, forges holy, _sacred_ ropes that _bind_ ‘em together, and the _wildling,_ the wildling with the red, _red_ eyes that become _gold_ when they’re gazin’ a _t one Steve Harrington_ , writhes up into his chest and opens its fanged maw,

Keens as Billy moans, “ _Bambi_ ,” and,

He can barely fuckin’ _breathe_ save for when Steve deigns to feed him the stardust air outta his lungs, and _there’s somethin’_ – somethin’ _happening_ , happening to _Billy_ , as Steve _moves_ in him, as he paints _devotion_ across Billy’s skin, as he smears his lips over Billy’s jaw, down his throat,

Somethin’ is _happening,_

Somethin’ that’s _never_ happened before,

And Billy chokes on a faint, “ _Steve_ ,” as _his bones_ – as his fucking _bones_ start to, to _tremble_ , and Steve murmurs, “I’m _right here_ , baby, _love you_ , love you _so much,”_ and,

He –

Steve is _feelin’_ him,

But all _Billy_ can feel is the velvet softness of the body above him, the body _inside_ him; all he can feel is _sunlight_ , sheer, absolute _sunlight_ and – and some, _some kinda,_ kinda _power_ , the kinda power that makes his lungs _clench_ and his throat _thick_ , and Steve groans, “ _God_ , Billy, your eyes, they’re _so_ fucking gorgeous,” and,

A _fierce_ , wild kinda _rage_ whips through Billy, the kinda shit that would normally coax a deadly, _ruining_ kinda fire outta him, but _this time_ \- all that comes _this time_ is an _agonized,_ aching, utterly _heaving_ love, the kinda love that could make the world turn _backwards,_ and Billy gazes up at Steve through a haze of an absolutely _feral_ need, and those honey-gold eyes burrow deep, _so_ fuckin’ deep _, and –_

His bones _shake,_

And his soul _writhes_ ,

And the wildling in his chest is _red-eyed_ ,

As he _understands,_

Fully,

_Entirely,_

That he would _die,_

Kill,

_Hunt,_

_All_ for the love of _one Steve Harrington,_

As he realizes –

He _exists_ only at the _mercy_ of the man above him,

And his bones _shake_ as the fire windin’ around ‘em goes _white,_

As it starts to creep down towards their bodies,

As it curls over Steve’s spine,

As it _wraps_ around them, cocooning them from the world,

And Billy’s panting like a rabid _beast_ as Steve’s brow furrows and his hips stutter, and he _slows_ , and Billy, suddenly _desperate_ , suddenly _terrified_ , completely feral, _snarls,_ “don’t, _don’t fuckin’ stop,_ don’t, _need_ –“

But,

“ _Baby_ , you’re –“

“I know,” Billy manages, and his eyes are bleeding stars, “I _know_ , Bambi, just _, please,_ don’t stop, _please,”_ and his voice _breaks_ , shatters, and Steve sweeps in to catch the glass of his plea on his tongue, tangles clever fingers through Billy’s curls,

 _Doesn’t stop_ ,

And Billy’s bones are comin’ _apart,_

And somethin’ inside’a him is being set _free,_

_As –_

He slides his firelit hands over Steve’s sides, as he traces the slope of Steve’s neck with trembling fingertips, as he lets loose _aching_ , ashen breaths, as he traces the _scars_ lacing this holy body, scars he’s _long_ memorized, the scars Steve’s gotten from takin’ hits _meant for Billy_ ,

And there’s a _furious_ , seething pleasure _burnin’_ at the base of Billy’s spine, and his cock is _hurtin_ ’ somethin’ _fierce_ , but he _doesn’t fuckin’ care_ , doesn’t _give_ a _shit,_ doesn’t even dare touch himself, ‘cause _all_ he _wants,_ all he _needs_ , is to be _set free_ by one Steve Harrington, and,

Somethin’ _new_ is happening to Billy as Steve _pours_ his devotion over him,

As Steve murmurs soft shit in his ear, _right_ in his goddamn ear, the kinda shit that _digs_ the sweetest claws into Billy’s _soul_ , shit like;

“It’s _alright_ , tiger, let it out, you’re _safe,_ you’ve got me, I’m _right here,”_ and,

“Always gonna be _right_ here, I _belong_ right here, belong _with_ you, _to_ you,” and,

“You feel _so fucking amazing_ , baby, you take me _so well_ , you’re _so good,_ take me like you were _made_ for me,”

And,

Billy thinks he _was,_

Thinks the only reason his dumb fucking luck has carried him this goddamn far was _all_ for _this_ , all for the love of _Steve Harrington,_ who trips over his own limbs, who can't sing to save his life, who can _somehow_ dance like he doesn't regularly trip over his own limbs, who has a spiked bat in the closet, a spiked bat he uses to fight the world offa _one Billy Hargrove,_

Who Billy chased out into the _cold_ five years ago,

Who came _right_ back, despite the fear that Billy Hargrove’s heart could’a turned to ice when it came to _one Steve Harrington,_

But it _never_ coulda,

‘Cause it spent those five years livin’ between Steve’s sunlit palms,

And now here they are,

In their own goddamn apartment,

The apartment Billy’s gonna turn into a goddamn _fortress_ so he can keep Steve _safe_ , proper safe, and he gave up part of his human soul in exchange for the knowledge the Otherworld kept, gave up part of his human soul to learn the old ways, the ways of the witches that came before him, gave up part of his soul to become somethin’ _wild,_ somethin’ _feral,_

Somethin’ with teeth sharp enough to keep the world offa one Steve Harrington,

And Billy exists _only_ at the mercy of the man pushin’ divinity through his blood,

And Billy’s chest hitches as he keens around rippin’, overwhelmed sobs, and Steve’s panting, open-mouthed, against Billy’s cheek as he fucks _faster_ into him, faster, _harder,_ deeper, and Billy feels him in his _bones_ , in his _blood_ , in his _throat,_ feels him at the base of his spine, feels him in his goddamn _soul,_ and,

It _feels –_

Feels like the _wilds,_

Feels like the deep Salem woods, where the witches lie buried face-down, where the groves are hallowed and _aching,_

And it _feels –_

Feels like the call to _hunt,_

And Billy is both furiously _brutal_ and _so soft_ , all at once, as Steve catches his golden thighs and pushes ‘em back, as he gouges ever deeper into Billy’s unraveling body, and his brow’s _drippin’_ with sweat, honey-gold eyes so fuckin’ _greedy,_ so goddamn _proud,_ as they sweep over Billy’s face, and Billy’s nose furls as he bares a canine, as he puts his tongue to his molars and thinks he might be about to sprout _fangs,_

‘Cause Steve’s lookin’ at him like he’s the best thing he’s ever buried himself in, like Billy’s some kinda _trophy_ , some kinda _prize_ , and a sharp, searing _possession_ rips through Billy as he drags Steve down for a biting, _stinging_ kiss, the kinda kiss that has Billy _snarling_ into it, the kinda shit that Steve puts a hand to his _throat_ for,

And somethin’ _ancient_ and _new_ sweeps through Billy as Steve pours his devotion over him, as he coaxes somethin’ divine through Billy’s blood, as that divine thing starts to shred his fuckin’ bones, and,

It’s the call to _hunt,_

To _protect,_

To _keep,_

_Keep safe,_

And,

“Who do you _belong_ to, tiger?” Steve all but moans then, and his thrusts are sharp, painful in the kinda way that makes Billy wanna fall to his knees, “ _tell me,_ baby, tell me you _know_ ,” and,

“ _You,”_ and it comes out _all_ kinds’a _Upside-Down_ , comes out _gold-streaked_ , comes out _sunlit,_ and Steve gives him a _smile,_ the kinda smile that has Billy feelin’ as if he’s been stripped of any armor he’s got left clingin’ to his sun-burnt skin, the kinda shit that makes him _furious_ and _so_ soft,

And then Steve breathes, “ _good boy,”_ right against his lips, and Billy _whines,_ keens, and Steve’s _voice_ is – his voice is so _gravelly_ , so _proud_ , and –

Steve reaches down, deigns to finally, _finally_ wrap those clever fingers around Billy’s _aching_ cock, and it’s like someone’s shoved a serrated knife through Billy’s fucking _heart_ as Steve jerks him quick _, merciless,_ and then Billy’s coming _fully_ apart, and his bones _rip_ open, and his gut _burns_ , and his eyes _bleed_ diamonds, and the fire burns _gold,_

Pulses out from their bodies in a _shockwave_ before vanishing entirely,

But now Billy can _taste_ the magic thrumming through the floor, the magic that _sings_ in the walls, and Steve gasps, “ _oh_ _holy fuck_ ,” right against Billy’s throat before his hips stutter one, two, three times,

And the moan Billy lets when he feels Steve empty himself between his thighs is _all_ animal, _all_ fanged wildling aching to answer the call to _hunt,_ to _protect_ , to _keep,_ and magic sings through the fuckin’ _air_ as Steve gathers Billy up _close,_ gathers him up _tight,_ as he stays right, _right_ between his trembling thighs, keepin’ the proof of his devotion buried inside,

As he presses the bridge of his nose to Billy’s,

As they swap panting, exhausted breaths between their starlit lungs,

As Steve lets out a soft _, soft_ little sound, the kinda shit that has Billy wanting to put his _teeth_ into somethin’,

And the air _thrums_ with _magic_ and _Billy_ thrums with the need to _hunt_ , to _protect,_ to _keep_ , so he rolls Steve into the sheets with a growl burring in his chest, rolls him into the sheets and cages him down, even as the weight of his devotion sinks through the walls of the apartment, turns it into a goddamn fortress, and Billy can hear the faintest whispers of the Otherworld, the faint whispers of acquiescence to Billy’s _claim_ ,

The claim that this is _his_ territory,

Territory he’s _carved_ _out_ all to keep one Steve Harrington as _safe_ as he can,

The whispers of acquiescence to the _claim_ on _one Steve Harrington_ ,

Who is _Billy’s_ ,

Who Billy _kneels_ at the _feet_ of,

 _Exists_ at the _mercy_ of,

 _Hunts_ for the _love_ of,

 _Protects_ the _heart_ of,

And Billy presses his lips to Steve’s cheekbone as he lets out a _ravaging,_ wild, utterly _primal_ laugh, the kinda bestial laugh that comes from _right_ outta the wildling’s fanged maw, and Steve slides his hands up Billy’s shimmering arms, cups his face and coaxes his savage mouth to melt against his own, coaxes it into somethin’ kinda _human_ as the beast _shivers_ and shakes right under the surface of Billy’s skin,

And,

“Your fire feels like this,” Steve says against Billy’s lips, “it feels the way I feel with you,” and,

Diamonds cling to Billy’s lashes as he drags his mouth over Steve’s cheek, over his ear, and he revels in the tiny shiver that ripples through the body beneath him when he breathes, “it’s all for _you,_ Bambi, always _has been,”_

And Steve presses a palm to his chest, right, _right_ over the _S_ that marks the _X_ of Billy’s heart, the heart Steve took with him when he left, ‘cause Billy chased him out into the cold, but _here they are_ , in their new apartment, the apartment that _drips_ with magic, magic coaxed _right_ outta Billy’s bones, _all_ for the love of one Steve Harrington, and,

“It’s amazing,” Steve says, quiet, awestruck, _proud,_ “it’s – fucking _unbelievable_ , Billy,”

“You gotta be some kinda miracle,” Billy says then, _all_ beast-laughin’ _choked up_ , all human-hearted _tear-soaked_ , “never felt it like _this_ before, Cherry-bomb, _never,”_

“Not even with your fancy pots and runes?”

And Billy traces the shape of Steve’s cheekbone with his fingertips, slides his thumb over his pink lips, and Steve’s honey-gold eyes are dewy as he tilts his head, lets his tongue flicker out against Billy’s finger, and Billy’s stomach churns with an _unstoppable_ , bestial need, heart thundering with an impossible, immovable devotion, the kinda faith that only Steve Harrington has ever inspired in his shrapnel soul;

“ _Nothin_ ’ could,” Billy murmurs, completely lost in the way Steve lifts his chin, in the way his lips look when they close around his thumb, in the way those hazy, lidded eyes can’t seem to unglue themselves from Billy’s face, “I’ll live and die burnin’ just for you, Steve Harrington,”

_Thought I had,_

And the divine thing beneath Billy gazes up at him with huge, honey-gold eyes, gazes at him _fierce_ , proud, _stag-horned,_

Then,

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he moves up onto an elbow then, slides a strong, _commanding_ hand around the nape of Billy’s neck, and he’s getting hard again as Steve grows inside him, and the need to _hunt_ rips through Billy when Steve lifts a brow, when that fierce, horned gaze sweeps over Billy's face, _when he says,_ “you will,” _and,_

The kiss that comes is that kinda _beast-laughin’,_

Human-hearted,

Kneelin’-at-your-feet,

 _Devoted_ kinda shit,

**Author's Note:**

> songs:  
> the mummer's dance - loreena mckennitt  
> the mystic's dream - loreena mckennitt  
> belle - r3hab  
> be my god - neon hitch


End file.
